


for the hero

by e11ipses



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: (this doesn't have a whole lot of substance to it btw), M/M, i feel like patroclus isn't potrayed as Achilles' equal sometimes so, voila, wherein i write a fic for a book that annoyed me a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 14:25:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7718287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e11ipses/pseuds/e11ipses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Patroclus writes a letter to the man others call a hero, because he is wrong, and it's been a while since someone told him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for the hero

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is born of me reading the song of achilles in one sitting, non stop. The thing is-- I thought Patroclus sometimes could have been a little stronger (especially at the end when Achilles is being a Grade A idiot), so I wrote this thing just for...fun? Also, I'm pretty sure the letter format wasn't a thing in ancient greece, but oh well.

Achilles—

I'm not one for hero worship.

You are the stuff of songs, for them, I see it in their lingering eyes, their murmurs. Everywhere you pass, as I pass with you, I see their veneration for you as some kind of saviour. They carved this role out of marble for you and you—who would die young and remembered—you gladly stayed to pose. I've seen the way your body moves in battle and outside of it. I've heard the screams of dying men and the cries of soldiers as you fight— _Achilles has come!_ As though they rally: _Achilles!_ I know this man that they speak of, I've heard his name and his praises often enough. _Best of the Greeks_. I would love to see this man, I think. They say he is invincible but for a single patch of skin. They say he moves like water over rocks, as a stream, as a wave. The enemy cower; the Greeks sing. This Achilles—I've heard he is already a god.

I worship gods. I do not love them.

Do not worry: you would not be the first I have fooled. Nor am I the first to breach this subject amongst the ranks of our dejected people. We prayed to the gods to send us here safely, and when they did, we sacrificed. They brought upon us a plague in anger, and when we realised, we sacrificed. Gods are greedy, my love, I've often found. They're used to getting their way. I think we admire them for it, but we do not love them. Some think they do; but this lasts only as long as the god stays on their side. So it is that you find some turn on you; others seek your aid without thinking of the man behind the skill. Achilles: I have not, and have never been, those people. I will not appease you. I will not beg for you to change your mind: this is what lessers do, not equals. The man I love is my equal, though many find it strange. You know this, or knew, rather, and I think that if I were to become another of your army, another who would do your bidding as a bed slave or a serf is forced to, you would hate me for it, so I stand strong. You are wrong, Achilles. My disagreement is not born of Agamemnon's hatred or anyone's jealousy, but love. I think you know, and that is why you cannot stand to hear it from me. I love you, Achilles. You have heard me say it. Hear it again: I love you, Achilles, because, and not in spite of, the fact you are a man rather than a god.

I am your elder: we have always known this, just as we have always known you were the superior in rank. Both these things, as children, appeared to balance the other out, and I counted on you to spot my errors just as I know you did for me. In a world of living history you forget, Achilles, your own. I knew you ere you could properly play the lyre. You were gifted, but you had not learnt. I urge you: learn now. Although they think you have all the answers: you don't. For them—think!—you arrived suddenly and decidedly, putting their leaders to shame. Of course they look to you now. This is the part where you act blindly to fulfil their expectations, or you stop, and you think of consequences. You want to be remembered—live now. Men remember great deeds done for them, not for the history books.

I write this letter, Achilles, by the light of a lamp at a desk in the tent with our bedrolls. You have gone: I know not how late or early it is, only that I felt your body leave mine, and I woke up to its absence. You will have gone for a walk or to see your mother: perhaps this will happen whether you seek it or not. Any other time, I would follow, but I know you wish to be alone. Achilles, I see the unspoken words behind your eyes. This is as foreign for me as for you. Everyone in the ceaseless war, it seems, must lose some part of themselves. I do not wish it to be you.

My love, the war has paused, for the while. We are not barbarians—we do not attack in the night. They follow suit, I think. It is a brief respite, at least. I have stayed awake for two nights consecutively tending the wounded, and it is only now I was finally bade to rest. It seems we are both too restless, my love, and perhaps some would say our days of sleeping tangled as one body are behind us. I remember those days: both of us wiry in youth, your features still full with the last softness of childhood. Make no mistake—you are a man now. I have traced the hard edge of your jawline and the veins on your arms until I could carve your image from memory, but you were once a child. You were born, as mortal children are, albeit to a goddess. You have loved, I hope, as mortal children do. I have watched you bloom and flourish, my dear, alongside me. We sparred together, although you were the better. We played together, although I always won. You see: we are different, my dear, but neither of us is better. I do not come to you to beg. I do not come to you to condescend, either. I come to you as your friend, your counsellor, your lover.  You are wrong in this. They have given you this pride and it has become your downfall. Remember: once, you did not want to go. Both of us saw the folly in this war. It is the same: see Agamemnon's folly now. Rise above it. You have committed yourself: stay with us. Stay with me.

If all this time, as you said, was not for Greece, but for glory: if all this time, you sought to become the leader the men thought you to be: then become him. Do not abandon this at the last stretch. There will be no glory for those who see pride as more important than accomplishments. You said this to the men once: I say it to you. Stay. Go home, if you wish, but no one will be waiting for you there with praise or songs at all.

Achilles, I have spent too long labouring over these words. The men begin to wake, the guards change. I will go to the healing tent to help where I can-- I will leave you to make history.

I love you, Achilles. We will get through this.

Patroclus.


End file.
